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The Death of a Man
They call the chamber the Hall of Kahless. The monks told us that it was the very room that our glorious leader had returned to, before he went on to reclaim his Empire. It had been a cold place then, ice-bound and carved from rough stone. Now of course it was as gilded as a bar of latinum… and had just as little true worth. Pilgrims from all corners of the Empire come to Boreth now, leaving trinkets in thanks for the Emperor’s return… though they don’t let it be known, those trinkets are how the monks keep the monastery afloat. Perhaps the money is spent on the bedding of the High Clerics…. I sleep on the stone floor. '' ''I’d learned years ago that there were no true answers on this frozen world, only questions lost in the wind. Sometimes, the monks would answer me with a beating – those were good answers. I am not the boy that was first abandoned to these halls… as a man grown, I find the questions that once took root in my heart withered. Now, I only ask questions of my bat’leth, and the answer is always the same: cut. '' ''If Kahless was the man we are told, this legendary warrior, the founder of our glorious Empire… why, in returning, has the glory been drained from his fingers? '' ''In leaving, he taught us that the Klingon people need nothing… but if this is true, why would he prophesize his own return? What possible good can a man do, once he has done everything? '' ''Kahless returned from Sto’Vo’Kor… an act of the Gods. I found a word in the old books – when the Gods would step into the lives of mortals, they called it a “miracle”. Kahless’ rebirth… a miracle of the Gods. The Gods we killed. The Gods Kahless taught us to turn from. Gods we are never to trust. '' ''A dead hero is a legend. A living legend is a fraud. '' ''I don’t think I have long left in this place. As warm as my bat’leth can make me, I feel the calling of the cold. Every day the sun rises once again, and I think… perhaps Azaram, perhaps this is the day you will be brave. Perhaps this is the day you will set yourself free. '' ''Perhaps this is the day you will step into the frozen wilds, and not turn back. I don’t know my Empire. I don’t understand my people. I am of them… but I am not one of them. '' ''Perhaps this will be the day I give myself to the cold. '' ''To die alone, my bat’leth unbloodied. Perhaps that will be my glorious death. '' ''-Korath, Azaram. An unsigned letter. '' ' }} \\the death of a man// {{ =''' We left Klingon space like we entered it – silently. The drums of war would be heard soon enough. Rura Penthe – The Alien Graveyard - where enemies of the Empire are sent to die. Criminals, certainly, rapists and thieves… but also traitors, political prisoners, and more than a handful of that the Emperor was simply tired of hearing from. A cruel placed forged in centuries of punishment and sadism… my brother once explained it differently: Rura Penthe was a kindness. Criminals were sent there to freeze and slave in righteous penance… and only when they were clean, in generosity would their most fervent wish be granted – the hangman’s noose. Now it was the heart of Khaegor’s war machine – a heart I would see cut from chest. ‘Research and Development’ is a new trick for my brother, but the technological advancement of his fleet spoke to the results. A man known only as The Engineer sat in the center like a spider in its web – anyone who would supply my brother with such weapons deserves the edge of my blade. Nezak was the first say the words, but I’m sure it was on the lips of the crew – we were not ready. My men had the fire and they hungered for battle; they were ready to die for me… but I would have them live. We could crew four of the captured Breen frigates, but we would need six times our number to see the brutal cruisers brought to bear. In addition, the Tok Vo’Morath was still little more than a husk for all our bluster, and our command structure was filled with ex-Federation officers and green boys – true believers, but untested. All of that disregarding the fact that the cold of Rura Penthe would defeat us as assuredly as it’s impenetrable magnetic shied. What honor can’t win, credits can buy; thanks to Nezak, we had more than enough. “The money of the Klingon People,” I‘m quick to remind Nezak, “money we are holding in trust.” “And the sooner the Red Path brings your brother to his knees,” he countered, “the sooner we can return it to them”. Never fault a Vulcan on his logic. Farrius Prime is an ugly world, fed on by the Orion Crime Syndicate like an Andorian skin leach. Knowing that the syndicate is riddled with off world informants, we sought to make quieter friends. I think he was a Ferengi – he certainly bartered like one. Never giving us a name, he represented the Krol, a rival criminal organization. I didn’t care who got our money. I did care about every hour that slipped by. If you ever want to lose a year of your life, give a Vulcan bottomless pockets and send him to the black market. The Ferengi must have smelled an easy mark – he did not realize he’d be negotiating with me… I’m told I have a relatively commanding presence, especially with beings I can lift with one hand. Rifles, grenades, cold weather gear; upgrades for the Breen Frigates and both Birds of Prey; customized weapons, armor and a cloaked science shuttle for infiltration… by the end, we had spent so much I had the Ferengi detail our ships for free: if we’re to be ships of the Red Path, it makes no sense to be green. All of that, and we didn’t spend a tenth of our account. I was impressed by Nezak’s restraint. Outfitted for war, we still found ourselves with a problem of command. Nezak and I have gone round and round – the Red Path may have begun as a religious organization, but it is becoming something else, something I don’t fully understand. The Vulcan insists on thinking of us as a military organization, filled with Captains and Generals… but we’re not. We’re a philosophical movement, evolved out of a church of anti-religion, posing as a political rebellion. Or perhaps we’re just fools, gorging on self-importance. I am certainly no martial leader, though I seem to be thrust into that role… I’m just a man on a path. There’s something about what we’re doing that appeals to those who are emotionally invested in Starfleet. Not as it is now – bloated, greedy, scared – but as it was. Nezak believes that there may be individuals who don’t fit within their narrow restrictions, whom he could draw to our cause. More and more, I’m coming to rely on his judgment. There are two in particular – Saria, a fabled Starfleet tactician that was dishonorably discharged, now returned to her home planet of Delta, and Professor Kreznec, an Elaysian drunk who taught Nezak everything he knows – that he believes he can recruit. He takes the Morath with my blessing. I, meanwhile, have an altogether more difficult task. In the shadow of Qu’Nos, on the planet Nomat, is one of my brother’s main deployment stations. Somewhere on that planet I have received word that there is a woman who fashions herself a Red Priestess: Linkasa, daughter of Ka’resh. Though I’ve never met her, she believes in the Red Path, and has gathered a force of true believers right under Khaegor’s nose. I owe it to her and the men she’s trained to bring them into this fight. K’veld has been pilot of the Kahless since our maiden flight – while I long considered him too wordy by far, over time we’ve developed a kind of report – at the very least, the man has yet to crash my ship. Taking our newly purchased stealth shuttle, the two of us flew into the heart of Klingon space. It wasn’t a faultless journey. In fact, our glorious shuttle was fairly limping by the time it entered Nomat’s orbit. But the cloak was still operational, and we remained undetected. Nomat however had been, it anything, undersold. I’m not sure what I expected – this wasn’t the location of a recruitment camp – Nomat IS a recruitment camp. A small armada hung in orbit, 1,000,000 troops on the ground, and I knew as soon as I showed my face that I would be arrested; while I fully intend on seeing the inside of Rura Penthe, I plan on doing it on my own terms. I sent K’veld to the surface to find this Red Priestess, armed with a short koan I hastily penned- “when dawn rises/ night is sundered/ pools of shadow will not last” If she was a true believer, she would know these words to be my own. Not an hour later, I received a transmission with coordinates: “the targ in the wood are hungry for bite” She may be faithful, but the woman is no poet. Beaming down, I found myself in a temple. An old place, it was dedicated to Kahless, but draped with the banners of my brother. It’d be blasphemy if the Clone Emperor weren’t licking my brother’s mevonks- ''my brother has no respect for Kahless, clone or Legend, and I wouldn’t expect him to start now. I felt someone behind me… And there she was. Linkasa of the Red Path. Robes of our order draped from her shoulders, I was instantly weary – she had a look in her eyes… fire, yes, but not just the passion of the faithful… the devotion of a zealot. She slit her hand, showing her blood – I returned the gesture. From the shadows I saw men of the Red Path watching us. “How many men walk the Path?” I asked, expecting dozens. “20,000,” was her response, “with eight ships”. I believe I kept the shock from my face – I’m not sure. With a gesture, she could double our fleet, and increase our forces by 4000%. Men and ships plucked from my brother’s own forces. Military strength to strike Rura Penthe like the fist of Kahless himself – “Defend yourself Azaram!” she bellowed, rushing me with her bat’leth. Dizzy with the possibilities, I did not think – I drew my own blade and effortlessly disarmed her – I had no wish to hurt the woman, effortlessly dominating the combat… Time with the Vulcan has slowed my wits. No, that’s not fair – it had just… been too long since I argued with a female. No Klingon would relinquish control over such a force for nothing – and I finally understood the fire in Linkasa’s eye. She may be a zealot, but her passion wasn’t just for the cause – it was for me. She lunged, coming at me bare handed. Dropping my bat’leth I responded – she was strong, her arms corded with muscle, and she threw me to the ground. I was on my feet in a moment, delivering a crushing blow to her chin… if anything, the blood running from her lips only increased her fervor. This was not my first time. I may not be the worldliest Klingon, but there were women at the monastery, and bat’leth training is much better with two. But this… it did not feel right. My heart… My heart belongs to the Red Path. Linkasa head-butted me, cracking my nose – I could smell her thick Klingon musk, sweat pouring down her skin in rivulets. The last woman I had fought with… she did not sweat, she just turned flush and slightly green… I found myself on the ground again. My attention was not where it should be. The true danger of a female isn’t when they stand in front of you… it’s when they walk away… My heart belongs to the Red Path. The Red Path needed Linkasa’s ships, and soldiers. I dropped my armor. When she came at me again, I threw her to the ground. The surrounded men had the courtesy to turn their backs. Nothing else must be said. --------------------//----------------- I was expecting Amorth Kreznec to be a frail, drunk thing in a chair, standard gravity being too strong for his Elaysian bones. That may have been the man he was – Nezak mentioned something about the wettest dive bar on earth and some man called Bond – but that wasn’t the man who I found standing on my bridge. This man wasn’t a drunk. He hadn’t had time to shave, and he smelled like a barrel of spoilt bloodwine, but his eyes were clear. His back was straight - he was clearly wearing some kind of exo-suit under his federation uniform. “What happens if your metal skin is shattered in combat?” were the first words from my mouth. His response was practically a growl: “Then I will give orders from the floor.” That was an excellent answer. “While you’re a member of ''this fleet, ''Captain Kreznec, you don’t need to wear those colors. I think it’s obvious that we’re not Starfleet”. “But I was”. The man had pride; I sensed it was a new feeling for him. “I honestly didn’t think it’d be a problem,” he continued, “we’re both wearing red and black.” …Before I left for Nomat, Nezak had given me a something called a ‘paperback’. Not a scroll or a tomb or a padd, it’s a human invention – perhaps Vulcan – pages of pulp bound and pressed, virtually defenseless against age and wear. Hopelessly antiquated, susceptible to flame, condensation, phaser fire… it was a Klingon translation of some old Earth stories. I asked him where he would find such a thing, or why he would even make the effort? “The answers to those questions are… logical,” he said as he cocked his eyebrow, waiting for me to work it through. I can’t fault the man for stretching my mind, but one of these days I was going to punch him in the throat. “Where? Farrius Prime, Obviously. While you were haggling over fabric and crystals. And you made the effort because… I don’t know, because you want to help me sleep with this incredibly exciting story of soft humans. This man has a feather in hat, and no armor. What kind of swordsman can he possibly be?” Nezak rolled his eyes – recently, he’d been channeling his hero, the Vulcan martyr Spork. Sprok? That doesn’t seem right… regardless, I prided myself my ability to exasperate the greenblood’s patience. “Just read the book”. The second of Nexak’s recruits was of an entirely different sort. Saria the Deltan outcast had electricity about her, an electricity I hadn’t felt in weeks. Bald, pale… but tall, she had a way of being the center of the room, even though she’d put herself in a corner. She was certainly a more erotic presence then my Klingon shadow. Linkasa wasn’t doing an excellent job fitting in. After months of absorbing the words of our journey, of clandestine meetings, conspiracies and lies… I don’t think the woman has seen any more of the galaxy then I had. She speaks the words, treats the alien faithful with respect… but she thinks in Klingon. It’s funny… I’m not sure when I started speaking more standard then my native tongue. Everyone aboard has learned to lapse between them both – something new – and I could tell it was jarring for her. Then again, it could just be that she believes us to be betrothed. By the rights of our people, we negotiated the Klingon marriage price, and I hadn’t even known it: She offered her ships and men, I took them… I’m not sure why I thought bedding her would be the only price I paid. Overconfidence and egoism, perhaps. She would have followed my footsteps every day if I hadn’t put her in command of one of the Breen frigates. Spending time learning something new would be good for her. It will certainly be better than her habit of silencing the crew whether I’m about to command or fart. The Deltan though… the Deltan. No forehead ridges in the least, hairless as a Ferengi backside, I don’t think there wasn’t a crewman on the bridge that didn’t feel something from the woman- even Captain Allen was stealing glances from her ship reports. The one person who wasn’t watching her from the corner of their eye in fact was Nezak; his eyes remained glued to his console as soon as she entered, but I would swear he never got any further then the first analysis readout. There was a green flush on his neck, and something about the way he was standing, almost a…bounce. I asked her a simple question: “Why are you on my ship?” “Because I’d rather do something on my feet then on my back.” She said it with a purr. I have no place on my boat for pets. “You are unfit to serve on a Federation vessel, an unwanted scrap from Starfleet’s table. Why are you worth so little to them.” She gave me a hard look. Her posture changed, suddenly dangerous. “Because I care more about people then causes. Serving the greater good shouldn’t come with a badge.” …The book Nezak gave me was called ''“The d’Artagnian Romances”. ''D’Artagnian was a warrior, a brave swordsman and a righteous man, fulfilling the destiny of a sworn order. Fighting a corrupt government, consumed by its own shortsightedness and greed. The French Revolution, it’s called, the rebellion of some province on old Earth. But in the history of his struggle, there was a battle… A prison, filled with soldiers and weaponry. That a brave few took back for the future of their people. Kreznec commands the first Breen frigate – the ''Athos, secretive and hard. '' '' Saria leads the second – the Aremis, ''two steps beyond the enemy. '' Linkasa was on the third- the Porthos�� �– with an integrated crew, I hoped great things for her. Rebecca Allen commands the fourth – d’Artagnian. ''She held this fleet together while we were away. More than a human female, or a federation officer – there is another word in the book that I am taking to. A soldier and a commander, someone moved by faith in something greater than themselves. Warriors for a truer path. ''Paladins. '' They called it ''Bastille. ''We call it ''Rura Penthe. '' ''-----------------------//-------------------------'' The Kuv ’VoKahless. TheToq Vo’Morath. Eight Birds of Prey. The four Breen Frigates, painted red. Two fully crewed Breen Cruisers, with another slaved to my consol. 18,000 ground troops. One stealth shuttle. The dilithium asteroid we call Rura Penthe is the seventh body of a trinary star system; days and nights are wild and unpredictable, but it gets almost no heat – it is said to be the coldest surface of any planetoid in known space. Only five ships hung over it, but they were Vor’cha class vessels; my brother had only built ten, and with their strength he formed a backbone of striking power that was ravaging Federation space. Five were more than enough to give us pause, but they weren’t alone: thousands of automated orbital platforms, a devastating defensive network. On the planet’s surface was a magnetic barrier, completely impenetrable from space. Someone was going to have to get inside. Nezak volunteered; I may have volunteered him. He would take the shuttle and create every semblance of crashing. Klingon forces would investigate – and kill him as a spy. Unless there was a reason to keep him alive. Because he might know something. Or someone. I sent Worf with him. The man would be brought in for questioning as a Martok loyalist, and Nezak would be kept as leverage. Once inside… they would busy the guards by staging a prison riot, disable the magnetic shield from inside and remotely shut down the orbital defenses. I trusted them to handle the details. With the two gone, we waited. The first hour past… I had given them ten. The second hour… they would be inside by now, being questioned. Perhaps aggressively questioned. Neither would break; their pain would give them focus. The third hour… now they would undoubtedly be locked up, broken husks of men, but husks that I trusted would pull themselves– We received a signal from deep space: the shield was down. We were picking up prison wide transmissions: prisoners rioting. I had given them ten- they did it in three. The gate was down. I leapt the unmanned Breen Cruiser into warp, dropping into space on Rura Penthe’s doorstep. The orbital defenses locked and the ship was bombarded with hails. I kept it moving at a nice, non-threatening half impulse. I was impressed by the restraint shown by the Vor’cha captains, though I had expected nothing less; they waited until the vessel was almost among them before opening fire. For two weeks our engineers had been reworking the innards of the ship. It no longer had life support; it no longer had gravity. It had one thing: thirty transphasic torpedoes set to blow upon impact, and an incredibly unstable warp core. As the enemy fire cracked it’s shields and began ripping through the hull, my readings told me that the warp core was cascading - the fuse had been lit – The fleet warped in the cruiser’s shadow: were going to sail through the hole punched in the enemy line, a ferocious first strike. We saw the blast wave mere seconds before it struck; we had planned on a bomb, but crafted a ''micronova. The Vor’cha ships were thrown like waves in a storm, the heart of Khaegor’s armada crippled in an instant. Whether from the explosion or Nezak’s skills on the planet’s surface, what defense drones still existed were dead in space. Half our crew found themselves on the deck, the front of our armada taken out at the knees. As the enemy ships brought themselves around, I hailed Kreznak for the best was to disable a ship’s power core without destroying it – “Phasers, and surgical precision.” He opened fire – one Breen vessel crumpled like a rotted tree, but the other simply went dark. The remaining three charged their weapons – P’raisan on our scanners informed me that their ordinance had been undamaged by the blast and was massive. With our shields failing from the shockwave, we couldn’t take another blow. “Attack Pattern Omega”. If I was to lead this force, expect battle commanders and brilliant tacticians to follow me, I could expect nothing less of myself then to earn their faith. I had been studying the greats: Martok and Kor, Picard and Sisko, the Founders and the Kirk. An armada was a man, and every ship a bat’leth: like physical combat, the strength of your strike doesn’t matter if you don’t know when to avoid a blow. Our pilots executed the command perfectly – three blasts from the Vor’cha, three misses. Saria informed me that it was a first rate Starfleet maneuver; I’m sure she meant it as a compliment. The Kahless opened fire: we destroyed one ship, and blacked out another. The Morath with young Kelearn in command took the last shot – he darkened his target, his aim perfectly true. “K’veld, you have the bridge.” If the helmsman was shocked at the promotion, he masked it; “Aye, Captain!” he said as he took my seat. Grasping my personal transporter, I aimed the beam for Nezak’s signal – “Mak’tah”. '' The magnetic shield was coming up as I came down. Never before did I remember actually being conscious mid teleportation – I could feel my atoms stretched across a dozen miles, the shield ripping at me, scattering me across the atmosphere. The Crystalline Entities had tried to erase me; I was not going to let a piece of technology succeed where they had failed. My will would not allow it. If I surprised Nezak by appearing beside him, it wasn’t on his face. “Worf is in the yard leading the prisoners against the guards,” he told me. “Does he need assistance?” He lifted his eyebrow: “Captain, the answer is – “Logical, yes, he’s fine, I get it. What about the shield?” “I can’t drop it while it’s rebooting. I’d need a few more minutes.” “This can all be over in a few minutes,” and I strode towards the elevator. The elevator -not a turbo lift - it was made of steel older then my family’s house, and still used a chain pulley. But it was the only access to the mines, and our scanners were telling us that was where we’d find the Engineer. And kill him. Together, we climbed into the contraption. With a rasp, we began to descend. It did not move fast. “So, Nezak-” I cleared my throat. “When you were negotiating with Saria, did it get… physical?” “I’d rather not talk about it” “It’s just that if you did, well… that would hardly seem… logical”. The flush was creeping back up his neck; “It wasn’t logical, it was ''pon farr.” “Are you in pon farr… right now?” The look in his eye was getting wild; “The hyper aggressive Vulcan period of mating? Yes, I am actually. I almost ripped a man’s throat out with my bare hands. I want to kill, and crush, and behave entirely too much like a Klingon.” The doors opened, and I could only grin; “There’s hope for you yet”. Inside the tunnels it was easy for us to follow the signals. We encountered a force field in our path… but it opened as we approached. We were being led forward, probably into a trap. I pity the poor being that thinks having the two of us cornered gives them the upper hand. A second force field dropped, then a third. We found ourselves confronted with a door – thick, old, more of a bulkhead then a portal, it had a locking mechanism more complicated than most warp cores, and a hand scanner. It only made sense that the Engineer’s lair would be protected from inside and out – after all, he was utilizing technology that my father was only dreaming of in his journals. A chill ran up my spine. It was stupid, but something made me put my hand on the scanner. With a rumble and clash, the lock came to life. The doors cracked open, and a hermetic breeze pushed our hair back, thick with the smells of ozone and astringent. Weapons drawn, we entered. After the dark of the mines, the lab was blindingly bright. The first details I noticed were the arcs of electricity – the center of the lab was a power core the likes of which I’d never seen. The entire lab was gleaming, technology that would look advanced even on a Federation ship. “Engineer!” I shouted, still squinting into the light, “show yourself!” “I am here to be seen…” My eyes adjusted, and I could see him, a blur, “but are you, my little Azaram?” That voice. I knew that voice. As my eyes focused… I knew that face. I was no longer war priest of the Red Path. I was no longer Azaram, son of Korath. I was little Azaram, once again too small for science, and I was standing before the man that left me in the snow. “Father? But…. I saw the Emperor cleave your head from your shoulders. I saw you –“ “You saw the beheading of a clone, by a clone. I am very much alive.” “Captain? Your…” Nezak was uncharacteristically hesitant, “… father, is displaying a dangerously high level of chronotron radiation, I would suggest- “Trust me greenblood “ - Korath cut him off- “ I know when I will die, and it won’t be today. I can tell you your end however, if you’d like.” “Father, what is going on? Why are you helping my brother when I am the one avenging you –“ “If you think I would help Khaegor, you know less than I had hoped.” Pushing me to think for myself, even now; “You are a prisoner here. He’s forced you to this.” “I would never help Khaegor’s mad schemes,” my father said, something coming into his voice – regret. “Not willingly. I would see my bloodline die out before I allowed my son to succeed.” There was a lurch in my stomach. It felt like that night on Boreth; starving, freezing, ready to die in the wilds… and a Saberbear watching me from the darkness. Certain doom. “Father… I will bring my brother to justice.” “You may at that,” I turned, the voice coming from behind me. It was Worf… bloody, cut from a dozen wounds but none of them fatal; “You may bring Kheagor to justice. But he is not your brother. And this man is not your father.” I remember the bear rearing over me. The double row of teeth, the hooked fangs. A perfect moment, before death took me and judged my soul. In that moment, I was ready. But that moment past. Cowardice made me reach for my bat’leth. Fear made me fight to the death. With no reason to live, I still clung to my life. My father looked me in the eye- “You are not my son. You are not Azaram, youngest child of House Korath…“ You, old man, cannot name me. No matter what you say, I will always be Azaram who walks the Red Path. I will always be myself – a boy too small for science. A man who should have died in the snow. “… you are Kahless, reborn.”